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I’m trying to plug some of the gaps in this blog left by concerts in 2014 that I never got round to reviewing at the time. There are plenty of these and I’m not sure I’ll ever get around to all of them, but it’s got to be worth a try, right?

It seems sensible to start with some of the shows that figured in my list of top 10 concerts of last year. In October I finally caught up with Michael Nyman, a composer who’s been on my radar for many years thanks mainly to his haunting scores for Michael Winterbottom films like Wonderland and Everyday as well as, to a lesser extent, Jane Campion’s The Piano and his work for Peter Greenaway. Rightly or wrongly, I’ve long thought of Nyman as a kind of British version of my favourite contemporary composer Philip Glass – swelling (post) minimalist structures, one foot in art music and the other in popular music, as happy writing soundtracks as he is writing symphonies. It’s an impression that was amply reinforced by his appearance at the Konzerthaus, where he led his eponymous band through a live soundtrack to Eisenstein’s 1925 silent classic Battleship Potemkin.

Now I’m no expert on silent film, but even I could tell that Battleship Potemkin was a significant achievement. I was gripped throughout by the film’s epic scale, its revolutionary editing techniques and its expertly marshalled propaganda message. But what struck me most of all was the people – the sailors, the authority figures, the people in the crowds –all of them intensely human, and all depicted with Eisenstein’s fascinated, unflinching gaze.

As for Nyman’s soundtrack, it was a powerful, headlong rush of a thing. I’m well aware that Nyman is treated with the same kind of sniffiness among the hardcore classical music fraternity that Glass is often subjected to, but I really can’t see the problem when the outcome is as lucid and inventive as this was. Hammering out pattern after bold pattern on the piano, Nyman led his virtuosic band superbly through the momentous events of the film. The uncanny sound of the saxophones, flutes and violins swathed the hall in vibrant textures and swirling, pulsating melodies. The film’s great forces of violence, struggle, treachery, unity and triumph played out hypnotically onscreen against the clashing inevitability of Nyman’s music.

Events took a rather surreal turn at the end of the evening. There had been a solitary heckle of “zu laut im Haus!” at one point during the performance, but I dismissed the uncouth interjection and turned my attention back to the stage and the screen. It was much to my surprise, therefore, that I walked past the mixing desk on my way out and found Nyman’s sound engineer being roundly scolded by a group of elderly female soi-disant musical experts, all falling over themselves to tell the poor guy how it had been far too loud and that their ears were still hurting. Well, boo hoo. Personally I could have done with it being a few notches louder, but the exchange illustrated perfectly why I like Nyman, an establishment figure who gets invited to play at the Konzerthaus but holds no brief for the stifling conventions of the classical music world.

Out in the foyer Nyman was signing autographs, not exactly besieged by well-wishers even though the performance had been well attended. I got my copy of Wonderland signed and related to him the story of what I had just seen. “This should be so much louder,” he replied.

A quick look back through previous entries of this blog confirms that this was at least the third time I had seen Earth in Vienna. They turned up at the Szene in 2008 and the Arena in 2011, although I’m pretty sure I also saw them opening for Sunn O))) at the Szene in 2006, which must have been one of my first concerts since moving to Vienna. It must have been galling to play support to a group who started out as a tribute band to you, and I wonder what the current state of the relationship between Dylan Carlson and Stephen OʼMalley is like, since they don’t seem to associate with each other much these days. But I digress.

My review of Earth’s 2008 appearance noted that on that occasion they augmented their core sound with keyboard and trombone parts. I recall being somewhat nonplussed by these embellishments, so I’m pleased to be able to report that Earth have gone back to basics this time, with the ever-present Carlson on guitar and Adrienne Davies on drums joined only by Bill McGreevy on bass. Carlson picked out long, agonisingly slow guitar solos against the thunderous swoop of Daviesʼ drums, the length and funereal pace of these instrumentals contributing to an overall mood of sludgey defiance that I found perversely invigorating.

Looking wilder and more whiskery than ever, Carlson speaks only to introduce the songs and his fellow musicians. The titles of the pieces (“Even Hell Has Its Heroes”, “There Is A Serpent Coming”) have a pleasingly apocalyptic ring to them that adds to the doomy ambience hanging over the proceedings. Although seven or eight distinct songs were announced, there was so little tonal variation between them that they might as well have been played as one continuous piece. This is not meant as any kind of criticism, by the way. On the contrary, the longer the concert progressed, the more engrossed did I become by Carlson’s relentlessly single-minded pursuit of the perfect note and riff.

In fact, the way Carlson approaches the guitar suggests that he regards it as some kind of block. His playing resembles a sculptural process aimed at refining and stripping down the instrument to its bare essentials. Holding the neck of the guitar aloft, his gaze fixed on the fretboard, he patiently chisels away at it as though in search of some higher truth. Unsurprisingly, none is found to emerge; nevertheless, Carlson’s impossible quest for enlightenment makes for an absorbing evening.

Once again, time and other commitments have defeated me and I am way behind with this blog. The last concert I reviewed here took place in October; I’ve seen quite a few more since then, but haven’t had the time to write reviews of them, much to my regret. I’d still really like to fill in the gaps, but who knows if or when I’ll get around to it. Anyway, here’s some kind of list of the ten best concerts I saw in 2014, of which only a few currently have links to reviews:

I’m still not much of a consumer of new recorded music, although my new part-time job as a reviewer for The Quietus has given me some very welcome exposure to 2014 albums. With that in mind, here are five new releases I enjoyed this year:

It’s not often that you come across a completely new and surprising format for live concerts, but that’s what Vienna artist, actor and director Oliver Hangl has come up with in the excellent series of “walking concerts” that he curates. The idea is simple but brilliantly effective: the performer wears a microphone, the audience is kitted out with wireless headphones, and together they wander through the streets of the city, the singer serenading the audience as they go with music beamed magically into their heads. No need to worry about noise from passing cars, or that the music is too loud for the neighbourhood – there’s only you, your fellow audience members, the constantly changing environment and the performer, whom you can be as close to or as distant from as you wish. Every so often, the performer stops at an open space to sing and the audience gathers round. It’s a uniquely welcoming and intimate way to experience live music.

Hangl has put on quite a few of these walking concerts over the past couple of years, but last month’s event with Oliver Welter was the first I had attended. Regular readers of this blog will not need reminding of my admiration for Welter and his group Naked Lunch, and I remain stumped by the fact that no other writer in English seems to have cottoned on to their significance. Critical recognition is long overdue; in the meantime, Naked Lunch continue to impress with their wintry, melancholic alt-rock.

Anyway, this was my third time of seeing Welter solo. Following earlier outings at the Radiokulturhaus and the Chelsea, temples to state-sponsored culture and Anglophile scuzz respectively, here Welter and his guitar were to be found in and around the streets of Floridsdorf, the 21st district of Vienna. Kicking off on the steps of the town hall, headphones safely clamped over our ears, we negotiated pavements and pedestrian crossings before finding ourselves outside an Interspar supermarket. I really didn’t think we were going to go inside, but sure enough we did. Bemused shoppers looked up from their browsing as Welter launched into “God” from the Songs for the Exhausted album, its tone of savage pessimism sitting uncomfortably among the mops and buckets on display.

Our next stop, equally surreally, was a small funfair outside Floridsdorf station. Following a brief, tense period of negotiation between Hangl and a carousel operator, Welter – somewhat precariously, it must be said – took up position on the sweet little roundabout, whose young passengers were fortunate enough to catch the title track of the Universalove soundtrack album. Striding purposefully through the busy station itself, Welter delivered the first of several cover versions, Phil Spector’s “To Know Him Is To Love Him”. Here, as with later readings of Hot Chocolate’s “Emma” and Ike & Tina Turner’s “River Deep, Mountain High”, it’s Welter’s quavery, desolate voice and tender washes of acoustic guitar that turn familiar pop standards into expressions of forlorn, burnt-out romanticism.

Lighting out for the quiet residential streets behind Floridsdorf station, Welter answered my silent wishes with a stunning version of my favourite Naked Lunch song, “Military of the Heart” from This Atom Heart of Ours. The evening’s final setting, though, was as perfect as it was unexpected: a quiet riverside restaurant on the shores of the Alte Donau. The sun having long since set, an inky gloom descended as we stepped gingerly onto the jetty. After tearing his way through All Is Fever’s epic showstopper “The Sun”, Welter, in an inspired move that did more than anything else to make this event unforgettable, clambered aboard a small boat and proceeded to give the rest of the concert from there. Floating on the dark waters of the Alte Donau with a helmsman at the wheel, Welter’s anguished rendition of “The Retainer” was a heartstopping moment. As, indeed, was the evening’s last song, the despairingly bleak “The Funeral”, sung a capella by Welter as he and his craft drifted slowly out of vision and into the enveloping blackness of the night.

Odd, not entirely satisfying evening of post-industrial synth pop from these British veterans of the genre. Konstruktivists is largely the project of Glenn Wallis, one-time auxiliary member of Whitehouse and associate of Throbbing Gristle, aided and abetted by a revolving cast of collaborators. For the current iteration of the group Wallis is joined by Vienna’s Mark Crumby, editor of the seminal Whitehouse cuttings book Still Going Strong which was at least partly responsible for sustaining the myth of Whitehouse in my mind when I bought it sometime in the 1990s. (It also included White Stained Covers, a free cassette of Whitehouse cover versions, of which more later.)

Given this enticing web of connections I really wanted to like Konstruktivists, but the evening never really took off for me. Having long harboured an unaccountable dislike of unconventional dress in all its forms, it was always going to be an uphill struggle from the moment Wallis took the stage in a top hat, white make-up, fake black eye and what looked suspiciously like a nappy worn outside his trousers. This get-up, ridiculous as it was, nevertheless made perfect sense in the context of Wallis’s approach to performance, which was just as uncompromising and baffling as his appearance.

Wallis sings in an unvarying monotone, his default voice a kind of muttered growl that rapidly becomes irritating and robs the songs of much of their communicative impulse. Due to heavy processing many of the words are inaudible, while those that survive seem to emerge from some opaque private cosmology. Stilted and rhetorical to the last, Wallis’s texts remain wilfully, defiantly obscure.

This is unfortunate, since at the same time Crumby is working wonders from behind his set-up (as far as I could tell, a mix of analogue and digital equipment). The electronic beats and textures are warm and seductive, the occasional blasts of noise cathartic and invigorating. Crumby takes as his starting point the glassy atmospheres of 20 Jazz Funk Greats-era TG and makes of them something startlingly fresh and unexpected. The sense of mystery is enhanced by complex and beautiful back-projected constructivist graphics, forming a constantly evolving visual parallel to the shifting sands of Crumby’s music.

Over at stage right, meanwhile, Wallis continues in stubbornly declamatory vein until, with some relief, the encore is reached. Much to my surprise, the finale is a track from White Stained Covers, “I’m Coming Round Your House” by Earphaser (presumably a pseudonym for Wallis himself). I seem to remember this effort being one of the highlights of the compilation, although it’s hard to say for sure since I haven’t heard it for at least 15 years, not having owned a cassette player in all that time. Gleefully puncturing the macho postures of the original, the song’s air of cheerful insouciance stands in marked contrast to the gruelling nature of what has gone before.

It seems unlikely that Al Stewart will ever play a concert in Vienna, which means I’m not going to be able to write a live review of him. But I still feel the need to write something about Stewart, since by now I’ve covered most of my favourite artists on this blog but never said a word about him, and since there are times when I feel that there is no greater lyricist and songwriter.

I can remember the first time I heard Al Stewart very well. It was in 1984 or thereabouts, in the spare room of our family house in Salisbury which I had converted into a nerve centre for A-level revision. I could never listen to music while studying, it was too much of a distraction, so I must have been taking a (not exactly rare) break from the delights of English, French and Modern History in order to listen to Anne Nightingale’s Sunday evening request show, which was broadcast on Radio 1 in pristine FM sound quality right after the Top 40 show. This programme regularly served up a diet of smart, listenable music I instinctively liked, music that I couldn’t find anywhere else on the dial – not on daytime radio, not on John Peel and certainly not on the execrable Friday Rock Show (whose use of Van der Graaf Generator’s “Theme One” as incidental music was and remains its only redeeming feature).

Anyway, one evening Anne Nightingale played a song that immediately made me sit up and pay attention – one of those that, when you hear it on the radio, you make sure you’re listening to the presenter at the end, because you absolutely need to know the artist and title. This song was ten minutes long, lyrically intricate, driven by mile-high acoustic riffing and a compelling air of drama and mystery. At the end of the song Anne Nightingale helpfully told us not only that it was called “Nostradamus” by Al Stewart, but also that it came from an album called Past, Present and Future. I had never heard of Stewart, but I had to own this record, and so I set off to find it – something easier said than done, since, like most of his back catalogue at the time, it was long deleted.

I can’t remember where I finally tracked down Past, Present and Future, but it would have been some second-hand record shop in London or Brighton. I fell in love with the LP instantly, and it’s still one of my top three favourite albums of all time. (The others, since you ask, are Still Life by Van der Graaf Generator and In My Tribe by 10,000 Maniacs – another group I must write about sometime.) My taste in music at the time was clearly heading in the direction of folky singer-songwriters, with Leonard Cohen and Suzanne Vega (although not Bob Dylan) both getting repeat play on my turntable. But Past, Present and Future had something that both Cohen and Vega lacked – it rocked, and it was that delightful mix of folk and rock music that really sealed the deal for me. Like no record I’d heard before, it was brimful of winning tunes, inspired guitar work and infectious, propulsive rhythms.

And the words! Rich in metaphor and clever wordplay, yet stirred by narrative drama, these were the most literate and eloquent lyrics I had ever heard, delivered in a distinctive, coolly precise voice that made you hang on every word. “Nostradamus” was the highpoint, of course, but every song on the record was a gem, from the moving and autumnal “Old Admirals” via the witty historical rollercoaster of “Post World War Two Blues”, to the towering epic that was “Roads to Moscow”. There was something uncanny about the cover as well. Wearing a three-piece suit, leaning stiffly against a mantelpiece in a room full of antiques, paintings and fine china, Stewart looked more like a young aristocrat than a musician. Meanwhile, the Old English lettering and filigree tracery reinforced the impression of the album as a historical document rather than a mere collection of songs.

Over the next few years I hunted down the rest of Stewart’s extensive and mostly deleted back catalogue in those same second-hand record shops. Modern Times, the follow-up to Past, Present and Future, was another masterpiece, and indeed I regard those albums as two of the greatest, and most overlooked, achievements of British folk rock. I eventually completed my collection with a mint condition original copy of the first, not terribly good album, Bedsitter Images, which is probably the rarest record in my possession. Each album was replete with Stewart’s unique songwriting talent, blending personal and historical narratives in songs that resonated with striking imagery, radiant melodies and that wistful, mellifluous voice. I’ve listed ten of my favourites at the end of this article, but I could easily have named a dozen others.

The first new Al Stewart album to be released after I discovered him was 1988’s Last Days of the Century – not one of his best, admittedly, but still perfectly listenable, featuring a then unknown Tori Amos on backing vocals. On the back of this record Stewart toured with a full band, giving me the chance to see him live for the first time at the Town & Country Club (now the Forum) in Kentish Town. It was a hugely enjoyable concert, featuring a generous cross-section of his songs and also, I recall, a fine uptempo version of Leonard Cohen’s “One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong”. Funnily enough I was wearing a Leonard Cohen T-shirt that evening, which I had purchased at his Royal Albert Hall concert earlier in the year. With a few other diehards I hung around by the Town & Country Club stage door after the show, and met Stewart for an autograph or two. He commented favourably on the T-shirt and told me a story of a time when he had met Cohen. The details of this encounter are unfortunately now lost to me, other than that the old groaner said to Al: “I’m waiting for Suzanne.”

Not long after that (in 1989, maybe), I made the short journey along the south coast from my home in Brighton for my second Al Stewart concert in the unglamorous surroundings of the Assembly Hall in Worthing. This was also a full-band show, but the only thing I can remember about it is that the bloke playing saxophone left the stage and wandered around the hall while taking his solo on “Year of the Cat”. I’d like to think Stewart played “Manuscript” that night, probably the only song in the world that namechecks Worthing, but I honestly can’t remember whether he did or not.

I saw Stewart a few more times after that (the Royal Festival Hall in 1991 among them), but these were all solo or duo acoustic shows and therefore bereft of the electric dynamics of Stewart at his folk-rock best. In fact, with the exception of a full-band show at the Royal Albert Hall in 2013, I’m not sure he’s played with a proper band (meaning electric guitar, bass and drums) for years. His recent albums, since 1993’s excellent Famous Last Words, have also tended to err on the side of unplugged caution. This is a real shame, since these songs are certainly at their best with the amps turned up and the pulse of a rock beat going through them.

I’ve written this article because Al Stewart has given, and continues to give, enormous listening pleasure to me, and I wanted to set down some of my experiences of being a fan of his over the past 30 years. His songs are like no others; they are lucid, moving, clever, funny and endlessly quotable. Here, for example, is a beautiful and perfectly balanced couplet: “And had I but known last summer what I now understand/I’d have never set my foot inside this bleak and bitter land.” There are so many others, but don’t take my word for it – listen for yourself.

Here’s another group who have spent years on the road, perfecting their live act and building up popularity through word of mouth, hard work and bloody-minded persistence. And in Future Islands‘ case it certainly seems to be paying off, although their now legendary appearance on the David Letterman show can’t have done their prospects any harm either. The Flex was rammed to capacity on this occasion, and it doesn’t take a genius to predict that Future Islands will be playing much larger venues than this from now on.

So yes, I went along to this show out of curiosity and because, like everyone else it seems, I was intrigued by vocalist Samuel T Herring’s performance on Letterman. In a world of formulaic indie artists, here is someone with a unique and riveting approach to performance. Herring sings with undeniable passion and soul, but that’s only the beginning of what makes him a star. He dances in an extraordinary, utterly unself-conscious style, bobbing and weaving as if vast, unmediated emotions are coursing through his veins. When he’s not reaching out to the audience as if trying to connect with each and every one of them, he’s either growling like a dog or hammering on his chest like a penitent. It’s a wonderful sight to behold, and if anyone reading this hasn’t yet seen that Letterman clip, I urge you to seek it out on YouTube; it’s truly spectacular.

The problem, for me at least, is that the songs themselves are not strong enough to sustain interest for an entire performance. In Herring, Future Islands have one of the most charismatic frontmen I’ve seen, yet all the charisma in the world can’t hide the fact that the group’s songwriting ranges from the rudimentary to the insipid. The gorgeous “Seasons (Waiting on You)”, by a country mile their best song, is tender, melancholy and suffused with an indefinable longing; try as they might, however, the group are fatally unable to reproduce its magic elsewhere. Song after song proceeds on the basis of lazy, half-baked melodies oozing out of watery synth tones. Lyrically tendentious and rhythmically uninspired, this stuff takes its place at the end of a long line of unremarkable synth pop creations.

Now on the verge of a major breakthrough, Future Islands find themselves on the horns of a considerable dilemma. Without Herring’s lovable-dork persona, they would be just another bunch of chancers dolefully prodding at a keyboard. For now, they are able to bask in the considerable goodwill generated by their frontman’s undoubted appeal. Yet the thinner the act wears, the more Future Islands risk being rumbled as musical also-rans.